


patience

by valerian



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:01:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valerian/pseuds/valerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes love springs from chance, other times destiny. Neither believe in either. An assortment of Lon'qu/Maribelle drabbles as inspiration arises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

When they meet for the first time, it's like a scene out of one of Cordelia's favorite books.

She's looking across the battlefield, both healing and guardian angel rolled into one. Hair all asunder, staff drawn.

He's sweating, half blind with bloodlust, fear, adrenaline, life stuff. Y'know. Warrior shit. Swordmaster, the khan's champion, and all that…

Their eyes meet, and it feels like nothing. Just an awkward glance. Who gives a shit? They're just two people on the same team, fighting for the same lives (theirs and their friends and their futures: hullaballoo! on the path to freedom).

So yeah, it's not a "special" moment. It's not even a special moment. Just two people sharing in the fight for all of one point two three seconds, so when it's over, neither think anything of it.

But their tactician thinks of it. But their gods think of it. Duty-bound destiny thinks more than a little of it; it thinks a lot of it and it and it and that and this and a little more blood,  _please._

Yet neither Lon'qu of Chon'sin, son of nobody times two, nor Maribelle of Ylisse, daughter of a duke times three or four,  _think anything of it_ , which is exactly why they see each other all too often in the future. Later.


	2. youth

"A noblewoman is defined by her hair," Mother said. "You must never let your hairstyle fall into ruin or become disturbed by anything. Do you understand? Not anything, not even by the gods themselves! You must always,  _always_  keep your appearance presentable, and the first step to maintaining proper presentation is hair."

Perfect hair. "Of course, Mother. I won't forget it."

"A noblewoman must never forget to powder her noise. A shiny nose will mean instant ostracization, darling, especially in court. Do you understand that?"

Powdered nose. "Yes, Mother."

"A noblewoman must also carry herself with poise and an excellent posture. I am certain you have had this ingrained into your head by Mistress Genevieve, but I feel the need to reiterate it. Stand straight and proud. You are no lowborn commoner, my dear. Do you hear me?"

Poise and posture. No lowborn commoner. "Yes, I hear you, Mother."

"Good. Now turn around, and let your Mother see you."

Maribelle turned away from the full-length mirror. Her waist felt cinched and bound by the corset Anya had taken twenty minutes to stuff her in. The eleven-year-old girl took care not to breathe in too deeply; doing so caused a pain in her chest. Her gloved hands trembled slightly at her sides as Mother, tall and glorious, gave her a thoroughly frightening examination.

"You look alright overall. There is nothing too glaringly deficient. Your lipstick looks too red for your age, though. I'll tell Anya to change it to the primrose color."

With an unforgiving grip, Mother tilted Maribelle's small chin upwards, turning her daughter's face from side to side. "The make-up is veritably porcelain. Although you would look far more precious with curlier lashes."

"I think they look fine," Maribelle whispered.

"No. Trust me, darling, the curlier the better."

"Alright."

Mother let go of her face, and Maribelle tried not to exhale too loudly. Long fingers pulled on a cluster of her blonde locks, and she felt a sting not unlike a needle being inserted into her skull.

Don't cry, don't cry! Maribelle lowered her gaze to the mahogany floor as Mother railed on about the bounciness of her daughter's hair, how it needed to be maintained every day.

"Your naturally straight hair will win you no points with the gentlemen. Remember that."

"I shall, Mother."

"Good."

Then, all of a sudden, weekly inspection ended. Mother blew some parting kisses and sashayed out of the room. With a heavy heart, Maribelle watched her leave, knowing she wouldn't see the woman, the statue upon a pedestal in the garden of a goddess, for another seven days.

She had long given up on asking what Mother did while away.

"A woman must have her secrets, darling."

And so many secrets did that woman keep.

* * *

Somewhere far away, completely removed from the marble fountains and bejeweled goblets of Themis Manor, stood a fourteen-year-old boy with the unruliest hair across several kingdoms.

He had no mother to scold him or groom him or inspect him. He had no father to do the same. He had no siblings either.

He had, by and by, nothing at all.

Lon'qu huddled behind a pile of old books, scrolls, and papers the local scribe had thrown away. They sat in a haphazard stack, pages on top of pages of fabric that, unused, could have sold for at least forty-five gold a piece. They painted a portrait of decadence and luxury the boy had never known. All his life he had had to scavenge or beg or be beaten for his next meal. It was a wonder he breathed now.

Still, throughout his trials, he kept up with his reading. That was Ma's dying wish after all. "Don't forget to read every day, son. Practice your handwriting too."

So that was what Lon'qu did. Setting in his lap a legal document he had removed from the pile, he quietly muttered the small words made legible by the glowing moon overhead.

"Fa'lan of Chon'sin requests that the state no longer recognize her deceased husband, Pi'qin, as the head proprietor of her family's dwelling. She requests that the title be transferred from him to herself. She does not request an external arbi…arbi…trator at her hearing, scheduled in two weeks time…"

Straining in the darkness, Lon'qu's eyes hurt. But he had a dead woman's promise to keep. And, by the gods, if he did not finish this document by the time the scribe's two cats found him and alarmed their owner of his presence, he truly was as worthless as Pa used to call him.

"You worthless sack of shit. Don't question your elders. You don't know anything about working. You don't know anything about anything. What do you know? Who makes the money in this house?"

Well, nobody now.

Still keeping his eyes on the legal document, Lon'qu curled his frostbitten fingers around the paper he had torn from the notification board in the square. It had been crumpled, both by his clenching fists and numerous subsequent attempts to flatten it, but its wrinkles carried the hope of his next several bowls of broth.

_The house of Bi'ren is seeking kitchen boys to help peel last year's harvest of potatoes._

Lon'qu did not have a taste for potatoes, but he did have a taste for life.


	3. moment

“Hey!”

Walk away.

“Hey, you!”

Walk faster.

“Lon’qu! I’m talking to you!”

He stops walking. Turns. Glares. 

“What?” he asks, eloquent as ever. 

“What do you mean ‘what’?” Maribelle huffs. “Look at your arm!” 

He looks at his arm, the one he’s holding to his chest. It’s a wounded arm. It’s a bleeding, wounded arm. 

“Do you _want_ to die by blood loss?” she asks. “Or will you let me heal you so you can die another day?” 

“It’s just a scratch.” He shrugs. “Nothing more.” 

“Men and their egos.” She rolls her eyes and lifts her staff. “Just hold still. I can clear it right up.” 

He takes one step backward, then two for good measure. “I have bandages in my tent.” 

“Why are you being so stubborn?” Her eyes flash. “I’m a healer. I heal people. Now don’t move, and I’ll just—“ She waves her staff. The gash on his arm starts to knit itself together. 

It’s not a pleasant sensation, but it’s not awful, either, to be stitched back together. To be healed or fixed or whatever. 

He grunts and stares at his fresh scar—a thin, new scar atop a crisscross of thin, old scars. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” She smiles, and her gaze meets his. 

He looks away. 

 

 


End file.
